


The reason Sir Arthur Conan Doyle spins in his grave

by Mary_Sue_Donym



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst and Feels, Arranged Marriage, Gender Roles, Multi, No Smut, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Suggestive Themes, not too un-traditional though, only a little different, the tagged ships are not the arranged marriages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:55:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27848102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mary_Sue_Donym/pseuds/Mary_Sue_Donym
Summary: Gregory Lestrade is a minor noble whisked away to a castle to be the omega consort to Lord Sherlock, an imperious and aloof alpha who seems to want nothing to do with him.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes' Father/Sherlock Holmes' Mother, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 43
Kudos: 65





	1. In which Greg is presented with and to his new home

Greg smoothed out the thick yellow folds of fabric swaddling him with sweaty hands. Out the carriage window, he could see the castle: atop a hill, looming over a sea of trees, leagues away from any town. He struggled to take deep breaths in his new, not yet broken-in corset. When that failed he counted his blessings:

His driver was a beta, so likely wouldn’t notice the scent of anxiety Greg was poisoning the air with.

Nothing bad had happened yet.

He was going to be consort to the future earl of half the realm.

The first blessing helped a little, but with the others a wave of nausea rolled over Greg and he leaned out the window to see if the fresh air would help. There was a light breeze, and birds were singing contentedly. If he closed his eyes, it was almost idyllic . . .

“We have arrived, milord!” With effort, Greg forced his eyes to open. The dark walls of the castle, stark against the sky, met them. He looked down and saw a drawbridge being lowered over a moat. _Thunk._ The carriage started again, slower, and crossed into a grassy courtyard. As his driver helped him onto that grass, Greg was forced to let go of his hope that his driver would think him calm - his sweat coated hands shook like the flame of a candle.

“Thank you,” Greg whispered.

“Milord Gregory Lestrade?” The woman who spoke was slightly taller than Greg, and a beta, thank goodness. “I’m Molly Hooper, the primary maidservant of the West Wing, where you will be staying with the other omegas. Your welcoming feast is almost ready, and in the meantime I am to escort you to the main hall to meet your new family.”

Greg nodded, because he didn’t trust himself to speak, and followed Molly to a towering set of doors. They must have been lighter than they looked, since she shoved them open with ease. “Presenting Gregory Lestrade of Kingsbridge,” she hailed, then bowed and scurried off to wherever it was servants went.

A barrage of people and their scents hit Greg. He was standing on a rectangular red carpet, and at the far end was a stone throne, with smaller wooden thrones to its left and right. On the stone throne sat a tall woman whose scent was that of char and gunpowder. _Alpha - bonded._

“My lady Countess Holmes,” Greg guessed, and curtsied low.

“Welcome, Gregory.” The countess’s voice rang out coldly, yet cordially and not entirely unkindly. “How has your family been?”

“Very well, my lady, since you have honored them so with your generous proposal,” Greg replied, curtsying again.

“Good. Sher-” she turned to the throne to her right. “ . . . Mycroft.”

The boy sitting there wasn’t short, but had the delicate features and sweet scent of an omega. “Yes, Mother?”

“You are sitting in your brother’s chair.”

“He is not here, Mother, and my feet were getting tired.”

Angry pheromones swept the room and Greg swayed. “I sent for him. I sent a servant to get him.” She rose, and Greg noticed that she was several months pregnant.

“Excuse me.” The countess marched out of the room, and the slam of the door echoed.

“Hello, Gregory. It’s very nice to meet you.” The man who spoke was a slim figure, who managed to make the modest throne he was seated on, left of the stone one, look large. Without the countess’s scent dominating the room, Greg could tell he was an omega. His scent had a slight smokiness to it - he was bonded to the countess. “I’m the earl, this is my eldest son Mycroft. I’m sorry about my other son, your soon-to-be alpha, he’s just as nervous as you are.”

“Father means that Sherlock is hostile to the very idea of a consort.”

“ _Mycroft!”_ the earl hissed. Greg could smell an apology coming on, but was struck by a yearning to interrupt it - if Lord Mycroft could give him any more information, Greg might be able to placate Sherlock.

“Is Lord Sherlock planning to, ah, pardon my boldness, save himself for his bride?” Greg had never heard of an apha doing such a thing, but if he already had someone in mind it was possible.

Mycroft chuckled. It sounded amused, but a bit sympathetic. “No, he’s opposed to being wed, as well. Don’t let it worry you too much. The liberty of Rome and Greece is of a bygone era; he is as beholden to Mother’s whims as we are.”

“You mustn't scorn your mother’s commands,” the earl said, wearily.

“Of course not. I would never.” Mycroft clasped his hands innocently around his knees and gave his father a honey-sweet smile.

At that moment, a metallic tang hit Greg’s nose. It was approaching quickly. The other omegas noticed it, too: the earl sat up straighter and Mycroft slipped out of his seat to lean on it from behind.

The side door banged against the wall as it opened, revealing the countess and another, tall, lean, _dashing_ alpha. He had curly black hair and sharp cheekbones which complimented the sulky yet refined coppery pheromones he penetrated the air with. Every other scent seemed to sink under his, which heralded:

Young! Virile! Unbonded!

Such intensity fizzled through Greg’s bones, and he trembled. He had worried about finding a much older alpha, but another young adult _could_ be worse. Say Greg couldn’t handle a more youthful, energetic alpha’s rut. Say he got hurt, and became useless, or worse, that in his fear of being hurt, pushed his alpha away.

He was jolted violently out of his thoughts by a whisper of impatience in the all-encompassing scent. “My lord Sherlock Holmes,” Greg blurted, and curtsied almost to the ground. The man he spoke to was, by then, seated in his throne next to his mother.

“Lestrade.” His voice was smooth, courteous, princely. “You may rise.” His alpha did not smile. Greg obeyed.

What an _honor_ to be gifted to such an alpha. What a terrible responsibility for a small omega’s fragile shoulders to carry.

“Milady, milords. The feast is prepared,” a servant called. Greg couldn’t tell whether she was a beta or bonded alpha, so fixated he was on his alpha.

_What does he think of me? He can smell me. He knows I’m anxious, but of course I am! But he’s not._ Greg followed the family out last.

The dining room was a cavern, and Greg got the sense that every other chair had been removed from the table, so far were the remaining ones spaced apart from one another. The countess sat at the head, naturally, and Greg ended up next to Lord Sherlock and across from Lord Mycroft. Food was served, a blessing was given. Greg put food on his plate but couldn’t bring himself to do more than pick at it. His corset was too rigid.

He kept glancing at Lord Sherlock. He had even, strong teeth - _when he marks me, it will be a clean cut._ Greg shuddered. It was tantalizing, but he wasn’t sure if it would hurt. His parents, an alpha and a beta, had been extremely uncomfortable during _the talk,_ so he hadn’t asked many questions. He knew that he was to be marked and not bonded, unless and until his alpha wed a non-omega. A bonding was similar in form to a marking, but reciprocal and held in place for at least an hour.

Lord Sherlock did not look at Greg at all, and did not speak except for brief yeses, nos, and how-nices. The rest of the table kept the chatter up, though. If chatter meant interrogation. “What instruments do you play, Gregory?” He was passable on the vielle. “How do you make your hair so handsome, Gregory?” He was just lucky, he supposed. “Are you excited for your next heat, Gregory?”

Mycroft had said that last one, while his parents were distracted. Greg peeked at Lord Sherlock. He hadn’t reacted.

“You - you can just call me Greg,” he stammered.

“Oh!” the earl exclaimed. “Of course, darling, we will.”

Mycroft smirked but didn’t push the question.

After desert, Lord Sherlock offered to walk to his room. He eagerly accepted. _Are we doing this now? We don’t need to wait for my heat?_ But after opening the door and waving Greg in, he did not follow.

He merely said, “Good night, George,” and left.


	2. What had been keeping Sherlock the night previous, and what came of it

Sherlock had not planned on being late. He was dressed and prepared ten minutes before Greg arrived. But then the head manservant of the East Wing poked his head in the door.

“John.” It was good that he was there, even though Sherlock didn’t know what he could possibly say to him or how best to say it. How do you reassure your unofficial consort that his replacement would only be in name, and beg forgiveness for that betrayal?

“Milord, are you ready?” Sherlock frowned. If John was reverting to titles - he sniffed the air, but the beta, as usual, had little in the way of pheromones. _Though he smells better than any omega._

Old fashioned deduction would have to do: John’s words, his slightly downcast eyes, the way he let his hand rest on the doorknob a moment too long. That added up to _not good._

“I’m ready. But I think I’ll stay here with you awhile.”

“You don’t need to make the countess angry for my sake.”

“She won’t get mad. It’s my big day, she’s hardly allowed to.” Just this once, she could have a legitimate reason to be angry, as a treat. _Oh! I know what I could say:_ “And it’s not for your sake. I -”

“Stop. I won’t be able to stand it, if right now you tell me I’m your world and tomorrow morning there’s someone else in your bed.” Sherlock ached to silence John with a kiss, but wouldn’t dare stop him from speaking. When Sherlock first presented and was moved to the East Wing, John hadn’t been one for conversation. He was a humble beta servant, Sherlock a wealthy alpha genius. But with time and patience, John had opened up. Sherlock wouldn’t trade that for the world. “We’ve had a good run. I won’t say this doesn’t hurt, it does. But whatever happens with your consort, I won’t hold it against you.”

“Why do you think so low of yourself? How could I possibly abandon my very heart and soul for some pampered omega I’ve never met?”

“Because he’s an _omega._ I can’t claim to know more about a bond between alphas and omegas than you, but what I’ve been told since I was a child is that you can form deeper connections and have stronger attraction to each other.”

“I’m in a relationship with, and attracted to, you.”

John gave the ground a little scowl. “There are needs you have that I can’t satisfy.”

“Like what?” As far as Sherlock knew, he had everything he needed that was conceivable to get.

“Well - heats, and bonding - and, ah, rutting,” John stammered, flushing.

_Those_ sorts of needs. “I’ve never felt any compulsion to chase those. I’m not a sex maniac.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you were.” John’s eyes were so earnest and concerned that Sherlock couldn’t help smiling. “But I have no right to keep you from him. Why don’t you meet him, and then tell me what you think.”

It wasn’t a test, John was too good for that. In fact, what he suggested made sense. Sherlock would have to meet the omega, and communication was usually something to cultivate. “All right.”

John smiled and brushed a stray strand of hair from Sherlock’s face. Leaning down, Sher-

“SHERLOCK!” The named alpha felt a firm hand grasp his arm and tug him out of his room, and a firm voice scold him. It was his mother, and after gleaning that the omega, a Lestrade of Kingsbridge, had arrived, Sherlock felt safe tuning out her voice.

As he walked, it struck Sherlock just how lonely he’d be for the next few hours. Father considered it Sherlock’s duty to love his omega, Mother would deem him a freak if he didn’t, and Mycroft had been a smidge bitter towards Sherlock since Sherlock had presented. Sherlock straightened his shoulders. _I can’t get back to you fast enough, John._

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On his way back from walking his omega to his room, Sherlock ran into his brother. “Done already? That was fast.”

“If by done, you mean that I’ve done something or someone - no. But if you mean done as in I shall not start anything more - yes.”

“Good on you! But don’t be unkind to the boy. You’ve remembered his name, at least?”

“Of course. Lestrade,” Sherlock replied, and began to make his getaway, for he’d already forgotten what first-name address he’d used to wish his omega good night with.

“Repeat it to yourself, that’ll improve your recall.”

“Very well.”

Back in his room, Sherlock found John seated on the side of his bed, waiting. Sherlock laid down next to him.

“Tell me what he’s like.”

“He was very nervous. I think he liked me.”

“You have that effect.” John grinned. “You don’t sound terribly enthusiastic.”

“I was right before. He’s an average omega who would never have a chance against you.”

“Praise be,” John groaned, and fell backwards. “Oh, but poor - what’s he called?”

“Ah.” _Good question._ “His name is . . . Gabriel Lestrade - but he goes by Gabe.”

“Poor Gabe. I’ve stolen you from him.”

“I was never his. He has no right to me whatsoever. John, I can’t stand being chivalrous, sometimes. I never asked for the responsibility of a consort, I didn’t want his honor to be dependent on my nonexistent affection - and I won’t pretend to have any for his sake. Don’t think that’s your fault; it is mine and mine alone.”

“I’m not going to blame you, but you’re right, I haven’t sinned either. All the same, poor Gabe.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, and lapsed into silence. He thought: _It’s going to be nothing but Poor Grant until one of us dies, won’t it? And of course I’ll be blamed. It will be a miracle if we don’t end up hating one another._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay I updated earlier than I thought I would! (You should reward me by telling me what you thought in the comment section)


	3. Home, bittersweet home

“Good morning!” Greg jerked awake to find a soft, unfamiliar bed beneath him. The quilt was heavy and the pillows numerous. A gentle pink light peeked through the curtains Molly was pulling back.

“. . . So early?” Greg swapped out the pillow he’d slept on with for a fresh, cool one and turned to face the wall.

His covers were violently ripped from him. “I’m not dressed! Hey!”

“You’re wearing a nightgown.” Molly shrugged. To her credit, she was not looking at Greg’s bare arms or ankles - she was too busy hauling him out of the bed. “But, you need to put real clothes on for breakfast. Stephen! Alex! Go help him.” Molly began to make the bed, and Greg was gently pulled into a large closet by two omegas. They were both bonded, so gave off very calm and docile scents. Greg felt almost as comfortable letting them dress him as he had been with his old servants. He might be able to get us-

“Not so tight!” he gasped involuntarily. “It’s new - not so tight!”

“Milord, these are quite standard measurements. It is important that the earl see you adapting to your new position. Perhaps you could break this corset in another day? Do you have a more comfortable one?”

“Yes, the dark red one, please.” His servants fussed about for a while picking out a new outfit to match it, then powdered his face. Eventually he was hustled out of his room.

“First order of business is breakfast with the West Wing. You’ll be seated with Lord Mycroft, Earl Holmes, and the governess, Lady Hudson. Come along, we’re already running late.” Sure enough, three chairs at the modest West Wing dinette table were already filled. The woman who was surely Lady Hudson had a kind smile to offer Greg, and carried the quiet scent of a gracefully aging omega.

“My lords, my lady,” he greeted with a curtsy.

“Don’t worry yourself with such formality among us,” the earl chuckled softly. “Please come have some breakfast. Did you sleep well?” 

“Wonderfully.” A plate was already set for Greg, so he began the vigilant tightrope walk of eating enough to last him till lunch, without tearing his best corset. He finished in only a few minutes, erring on the side of caution with the fabric. “Lady Hudson?” he asked, so he wouldn’t draw attention to his sudden stop. “What do you teach?”

“Music, poetry, and I taught Sherlock and Mycroft here a bit of Latin.”

_“Latin?” Am I going to be expected to learn Latin? Will I have to read and write it?!_

“Yes! I grew up here with the countess - I’m related somehow to the Holmeses, no one’s sure how - and we were instructed in it before we presented. We were fairly late bloomers.”

That wasn’t what Greg wanted to know, but he couldn’t think of a way to ask it without seeming either eager for something he didn’t want or rude. He’d find out eventually, anyways.

“Of course, Mycroft won’t be needing Latin,” _oh thank goodness I won’t have to learn it,_ “and Sherlock shouldn’t be playing with instruments when he has an earldom to learn how to rule. Mycroft, dear, you said Greg plays the vielle? We’ll continue with that.” 

Greg hadn’t brought his old vielle with him - it was an heirloom, too precious to be sent away with an omega. He borrowed one and took the morning to get a feel for it, as Lady Hudson and Mycroft gauged his ability. The earl excused himself so he could check up on the servants.

“Back straight . . . No, don’t glare at your instrument . . . Smile! . . . Very good,” Lady Hudson instructed as he played.

“I’ve never heard that song. What’s its name?” Mycroft asked.

“I don’t remember. I learned it at Church, I believe. I’m sorry.” Greg set the veille down and rubbed his fingers.

“Lady Hudson, let’s give poor Greg a break.”

“Alright. Why don’t you perform something for him?”

Mycroft’s expression was apprehensive for a brief moment, but shifted to a subdued sardonicism. “A fine idea.” He approached a large hazelwood harp and stool, and began to play.

The music began slowly and fully. It sped steadily, increasing in richness as it went, but with an echo of emptiness that was dissonant; lost. It climaxed with a wail of desperate desolation, fell into deep throngs of bitter resignation, and ended on a haunting parody of a Church bell’s shadow.

Greg waited for the last notes to fade before he said, “I haven’t heard that one either. Did you hear that at Church too?” He thought it was reminiscent of a blind monk or nun.

“I made it myself.” Mycroft’s eyes pierced through Greg, though he maintained a diffident smile.

Unable to think of a worthy compliment before the moment was lost, Greg replied, “Your muse must be very tragic.”

Mycroft smiled. Purely, with his eyes. “My muse is my mind.”

“Isn’t this lovely?” The earl, appearing at the doorway, asked. “You two can be our little performers when guests come over.”

“That sounds excellent!” Greg exclaimed, then glanced nervously at Mycroft to see if he’d presumed.

“It does.” It came out as a mild concession or surrender. Greg wilted internally with guilt.

“Now seems a convenient time for lunch, is that agreeable to all? Come along, then.”

As they walked, Greg caught Mycroft’s eye, held it intently for a moment, and purposely lagged a few steps behind from the group. As he’d hoped, Mycroft fell in besides him.

“If you don’t want to play for guests,” Greg whispered, “I can claim stagefright and -”

“No, it’s alright. I don’t mind showing off. It’s only that the guests are usually courting alphas.”

“You have many suitors?” He was surely old enough to. _He’ll probably get married soon._ The prospect filled Greg with a slight panic: he would be the only young omega, and everyone would pay attention to every little mistake he made, and he would have no comrade to learn and draw comfort from.

“Yes, but I’ve managed thus far to scare them off.”

“You . . .” Greg couldn’t think. “. . . What?”

“I’ve never met an alpha good enough for me.” He stated it very plainly.

“But,” Greg groped helplessly.

“Don’t tell my parents I’ve admitted that. They still half believe I’m just unmarriable.”

“Why?!”

“Because they’re not very smart. Oh, why don’t I think highly of my suitors? First of all, they’re not very smart either, but they think they are. Second, they’re loud, smelly, old, anything repulsive you can think of, and they don’t know it. Third, they act like they own me. If an alpha pulls you aside at a ball and starts scenting you -”

“Did someone!? -”

“Yes, once, but don’t look so scandalized, it’s just smelling after all. But when she does that in public when you aren’t even engaged, imagine how she’ll humiliate you once you’re legally and biblically bound to submit to her!”

At that moment, they arrived at the table. Everything was already set out, and the group sat down in the same position they’d been that morning. Greg ate very slowly, so as to savor the food and minimize the time he would have to sit still without eating once his corset got snug again.

The earl chatted for most of the meal about the new drama with the servants - some cook’s child was growing up to look awfully similar to her omega assistant, and his mother wanted to create a fuss about it and get the cook fired, while his father was desperately trying to shut her up. But when everyone was finishing up, his tone changed: “Mycroft, are you really going to have a second slice of pie?”

“Yes.”

“You shouldn’t. Look at Greg! He hasn’t had one and you can see how trim his waist is -” _ah! He noticed! All the pain was good if it brought me here!_ “ - while you can’t get under fourteen inches. It’s all about self-control.”

“My answer is still yes,” Mycroft said pleasantly, and continued eating. But Greg could sniff a bit of resentment rising from him. _Is it directed at me? It’s my fault, I need to stop this -_ but it had already stopped. The table was quiet. Eventually, Lady Hudson changed the subject.

The afternoon passed calmly. The omegas settled down in the sitting room and practised embroidery. Mycroft was threading something in Latin. The adults were making patterns. Greg settled on a Byzantine-styled blue flower, and got a lot of progress done. When it was time to quit and prepare for supper, everyone showed one another what they’d done and complemented each other.

Before then, Greg had never had someone to relax and sew with. An omega nurse had taught him how, and his parents approved of his diligence, but it was new to him that it should be a social event. He’d assumed that high-born omegas were always secluded, and that corsets and music and fabrics were private activities. It was refreshing.

Lady Hudson joined the group for supper in the large dining room, explaining her absence the night previous with a simple, “I was still cooling down.” _So she can’t be too old, if she still has heats._

Greg’s heart raced when Lord Sherlock entered the room. “Hello, milord,” he whispered as his alpha sat beside him.

“Evening, Gary.” The syllables were wrong - but oh! The voice! Richer and more delicious than anything on the table. And Greg smelled his alpha as one could feel their blood running through their veins. Blood certainly pumped quickly through Greg.

“H-hi,” Greg gasped. His alpha’s lips crinkled downward sensually. His brows furrowed in concern, gentle concern.

“You already said that.” And his alpha was talking to him. Paying attention to small, unworthy Greg.

“Ah!” Greg beamed dorkishly up at Lord Sherlock, whose gaze lingered on Greg a moment before turning towards the table.

Supper was heaven that night. He drank of the features of his alpha, and feasted upon his scent. At its end he floated back to his room on his elbow.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Mycroft, on his other arm, said. _Haha! Bed!_ Greg giggled and didn’t stop until his bedroom door closed behind him, leaving him alone. Then he heard his alpha’s voice again on the door’s other side, and shut his mouth, as not to corrupt the melody blessing his ears.

“Is Graham sick?” Greg swooned.

“No. He’s about to go into heat.” _Oh. Oh, crap._ How had he not realized - he’d been distracted all day - but it should have been obvious at supper, _I should have excused myself. I’ve humiliated myself in front of all of them._ “Mother didn’t notice, so you can escape your duty tonight.”

Their steps became more distant, and Greg sank forlornly to the carpet against the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a bit of a breather episode, but in the next few chapters, things should start *heating up* haha


	4. Interpersonal Relationships: the Dos and Don'ts, Advanced Placement/Dual Credit

The countess had had a long day of governing and being pregnant. She allowed herself a moment of respite, almost weakness, and leaned back in the music room’s loveseat.

“May I feel the baby?” her husband murmured.

“Mmm,” she affirmed. His fingers were gentle and tender, for he knew how ticklish she was. She watched him beam. “I was thinking Cosmo for a boy, and Eurus for a girl.”

Her omega’s scent seemed to waver in the air. “Oh.”

“I’m not decided yet, though, if you have any other ideas?”

“Well - I think for a girl, Sarah is a good, Christian name, and Edward is a solid English one for a boy.”

“Darling! I’ve told you before, those are nasty, common names. We’re nobles, and we need to distinguish our children from the serfs.”

“It’s just that, my dear, our sons have very odd names. I think it would be a pleasant change to have one - just one - child with a normal name.”

“Imagine, my love, a tapestry of heroes hung on the wall commemorating our children, and the bards laud them with epics beginning with: ‘Head the tales of the great Sherlock! Of the enchanting Mycroft! And . . . Eddie.’”

“Your aim is lofty, but humans are small minded, and pronounce judgement on us for our creativity.”

“Let them gossip! If anyone reproaches you, tell me who, that I may strike them down.”

“Oh, no, no . . .”

“Mother? Father?” Mycroft stood in the doorway. “You sent for me?” The countess heard the question, but knew from Mycroft’s poorly covered up scent of hostility that he already knew the answer.

“We need to discuss your marriage prospects,” the countess said.

“Please sit down,” her husband instructed. Their son obeyed.

“I have invited Princess Irene Adler to a party on Easter.”

“Oh? The princess?” Mycroft exclaimed impassively.

“ _ _Yes,__ daughter of His Majesty the King and Her Majesty the Queen herself.” The countess closed her eyes contentedly; her omega had taken the reigns. “It is absolutely crucial that you make a good impression on her. Even if she doesn’t seem interested in you, you must still be courteous.”

“Aren’t I always?”

The earl gave a little huff of annoyance, and the countess swooped in to his rescue. “To be plain, son, no. Remember how, at the ball, you managed to trample the toes of every eligible alpha and beta in attendance?”

“To be fair, Mother, my heels were unusually high that night.”

“Or the time you became tipsy on All Hallows’ Eve and alarmed our guests by claiming to see a bedevilled hound?”

“I was wrong about the devil, but Sir Rodger’s hunting dog has quite an unearthly howl.”

“What about the time the wine reservoir was spiked with sleeping draught at your cousin’s wedding?”

“No one can prove I did that.”

“Fine - but one thing you are __certainly__ to blame for is the way you led the Lady Anne on so improperly.”

__“. . . Led her on?”__

“You were caught in a compromising position with her in a dark corner.”

“But __she__ was scenting __me!”__ Mycroft cried.

“Shhh,” the countess scolded. “Don’t get hysterical on us, now.”

“I -” with a firm effort, Mycroft composed himself, though his scent gave his distress away. “I didn’t do anything improper.”

“You don’t mean to accuse the honorable Lady Anne of discourtesy? She is revered throughout the realm for her chivalry - you are the only omega, she told me, she had ever approached so brazenly, and that _your_ seductive wiles were the cause.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t need to say anything - only, don’t pull a similar stunt when the princess visits.”

Her son’s gaze fell to the ground, and the countess wondered whether he really __didn’t__ realize what he’d done wrong. “Yes, Mother. Will that be all?”

“Wait,” the earl said, “Give your parents hugs goodnight, darling.” Mycroft obeyed, dutiful yet robotic. He closed the door quietly behind him as he left.

His little (though taller) brother was waiting outside for him. “Did you tell them Gavin’s going into heat?”

“Wh- that’s not his name. But no, I didn’t tell. They’ll find out tomorrow on their own.”

“And then they’ll try to make me bang him.”

“They certainly won’t put it so crudely. They’ll just lock you in a bedroom together, __et voila__ , nature takes its course.”

“I won’t do it,” Sherlock spat.

“Congratulations. Do you want a prize? Why are you so proud of yourself for spurring your poor omega in his hour of need?”

“Since when was his need more important than my free will? Since when is a base, pathetic lust a need?”

“You don’t know a thing about heats, brother dear. You may certainly withhold your rut, but Greg is the one who will suffer for it, not you.”

“How would you know who it’s harder for?” Mycroft __supposed__ Sherlock had a point, technically, but there were few things worse than a heat spent alone. He recalled biting into his pillow so he wouldn’t be heard screaming or crying - the days and nights blending together in a buzz of throbbing, insatiable desire - struggling out of his sweat coated nightgown only to dampen his quilt with the liquid, making it putrid with agony and desperation. Heats were the one thing that incentivized Mycroft to tolerate his parent’s push for a wedding.

A servant suddenly ran around the corner. “Sherl -” he stopped when he saw Mycroft. __First name basis?__ He glanced at his brother - who was already looking at him, like a deer in the torchlight. “Ah, milords.”

“What do you need?” Mycroft asked.

“Nothing, milord. Sorry, milord.” The servant bowed much more deeply than was necessary.

__They’re hiding something.__ “No, no, please speak frankly,” he implored.

“I thought Lord Sherlock should know, if he doesn’t already, that his omega is -”

“Ah.” It was hardly a servant’s business to gossip with a noble, and there was no reason to be stopped from such an action because of Mycroft’s presence if they somehow worked up the nerve to do it. There was a hint of truth in the servant’s words, though. What reason did a servant have to discuss his lord’s romantic prospects? The two were romantic with one another.

Mycroft caught Sherlock’s eye and smiled knowingly. Then he zipped his lips shut and left the two alone.

“He’s . . . In heat,” John finished, a bit late.

“I know,” Sherlock replied. __So Mycroft knows about us. I suppose it doesn’t matter.__ “Mycroft thinks I’ll be made to go into his room. I’m still not going to bang him.”

“You should explain why.”

“Because I love you? Don’t you know that?” Sherlock thought he’d been clear.

John smiled like the rising sun. “Of course I do! I mean, explain to him.”

That would likely take some sting out of the rejection, __if__ Sherlock handled it tactfully. He supposed secrets were made to be shared. “Good idea. I’ll tell Gerald.”

John’s brows knitted quizzically, but he allowed Sherlock to link arms with him and escort him to his room, where they could partake in the sorts of things Sherlock was avoiding partaking in with Greg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays!! <3


	5. How the author beats around the bush of writing smut . . .

“Oh, dear,” one of Greg’s omega servants said as soon as he opened the door.

“Oh dear what?” Molly asked, flinging the curtains to the side. With the benefit of light, she then clearly saw the mess that was Greg’s bed. The quilt and sheets formed a little walled circle atop the mattress. Within was Greg, clutching a soft feather pillow tightly to his abdomen. “Oh dear!” Molly quickly closed the curtains and ushered all the servants out of the room. “Fetch Lord Sherlock,” she commanded them.

Greg smelled his alpha before the door even opened. It was a terrifying, tantalizing stench of blood - like water, clean and refreshing, but also the life of a living creature, virile and wild. Then he could smell and see his alpha at once and hummed with delight. Lord Sherlock had the chiseled features and imperial grace of a Roman statue.

“I’ve brought you some breakfast, Gerald.” And then he was Odin presenting a feast in Valhalla. For he couldn’t be anything so pathetic as real, or mortal.

“My alpha.” Greg slipped off the bed and onto his knees. He bared his neck. “That can wait, my alpha, I need you now, please,” Greg murmured.

“Eat your breakfast.” Lord Sherlock lowered a breakfast tray into Greg’s hands, then sat on the side of his bed.

Greg obeyed. Did his alpha find watching him eat attractive? Did he simply care for Greg’s well being? Whyever he commanded it, Greg was bound to admit happily and eagerly.

“Look. There’s no easy way to say this, but I’m in love with someone else.”

It was a blow, to be sure, but not an unexpected one. Greg shook it off with the dignity befitting an omega of his position. When it became clear that Lord Sherlock was waiting for Sherlock to reply, he said, “That’s no concern of mine, my alpha.”

“I’m very glad you understand. I thought you might be jealous.” Lord Sherlock smiled. It was a small smile, but genuine.

“I’m only your consort. Speaking of which, shall we . . . ?” Greg gestured towards his bed. He blushed to be so obviously impatient, but he felt like he was on fire and only Lord Sherlock could quench it.

“Or perhaps you _don’t_ understand . . . What I mean, Galt, is that I intend to be faithful to my lover.” Those words rested in the air a moment before their significance hit Greg.

“But - but, my lord -” The calm on Lord Sherlock’s face was severe and unmoved, sending Greg into a downward spiral of panic. “My lord, _please_.” Greg was bound to his alpha by law. There was no one else to help him through his heat, no one else to be loved by, no one else to love. “You don’t need to tell your lover that you’ve taken me. I’ll pretend otherwise, if you wish it, and bear all the shame of an unwanted consort. Have me in the shadows, have me with another name on your lips, have me as a brute, without love or tenderness - but I am already yours! Only _have_ me!”

“I will not,” Lord Sherlock said quietly.

“So you condemn me to be alone forever?” It was a bleak future. Greg had prepared his whole life for love, what else was there?

“Not necessarily. You may be with anyone you’d like, except me.”

Greg failed to stifle a sob and hold back his tears. He hid his ugly, snotty face in his hands. His body was sweaty and stiflingly hot, and his mind cloudy with misery. He heard the door creak - “No! Don’t leave, please!”

“I’m not going to bang you.”

“But - I know, but will you stay anyways?” Greg pleaded feebly.

“I have work to do today.” The door shut, and the noise of footsteps faded into the distance.

Later in the day, the door opened again. In a spark of sudden hope, Greg rushed to it.

His visitor was not his alpha. It was Mycroft, holding a tray and Greg’s vielle. “Come in!” Greg pleaded under the guise of a welcome.

“I’m sorry about my brother,” Mycroft said, obliging.

There was empathy in Mycroft’s eyes. Greg sniffed the air: it was sincere. As any omega did, Mycroft smelled sweet. Strangely, his aroma, as well as his brother’s, was stronger when Greg was in heat. He smelled like warm, dark syrup - inviting, delicious, and rich.

“Sherlock asked me to bring you lunch, even though you’re probably not hungry, and I thought you might like your vielle. Music is a good distraction.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft set the tray on Greg’s nightstand and held out the vielle to Greg. “Do you think you could distract me for a bit?” Greg asked, shaking his head. “Will you play me a song?”

“I’ll try, but I’m not very skilled on the vielle.” Sure enough, Mycroft grimaced and squinted in consternation as he struggled through the melody of _Summer has come in._ But although Lady Hudson would find fault in such a demonstration, lacking in the graceful effortlessness of a proper omega as it was, Greg thought that the performance was beautiful. It was not talent put on display - it was a determined yearning to improve, wistful, alive, and inexorable on its rocky path to perfection. When it finished, Greg clapped enthusiastically.

“I did alright?” Mycroft asked, surprised and suspicious.

“Oh, the music was ghastly, but you were wonderful.”

Mycroft pondered that for a moment. Seemingly satisfied, he set the vielle down gently. “Did my brother give you a reason for not going to bed with you?”

“He has a lover,” Greg replied. Then he realized, “Wait, is that a secret? Oh no, was I allowed to say that?”

“Probably not, but I already knew. Did he tell you who?”

“No. I don’t want to know.”

“Okay. It’s no one you’ve met, anyways. Are you taking everything alright?”

_I’m lonesome and loathsome. My only hope is that -_ “Your brother said he wouldn’t mind my cheating on him.” That wasn’t quite a proper answer. “I mean, I have hope.”

“Huh!” Mycroft sounded relieved. “That’s good. Do you have a lover in mind already?”

Who was an option? Greg was secluded in the West Wing. The only people around him were servants, the count, Lady Hudson, and Mycroft. The count and lady were too old for Greg, and his servants were bonded, except Molly. Molly . . . She was too professional to be interested in someone else’s concubine, and might even cause a scandal if he approached her. Besides, her beta scent was refreshingly neutral, but not addictive. Was that a good indicator of compatibility? _If so . . ._

Greg leaned closer to Mycroft’s aroma. His heart raced and his stomach churned. It was a sea of honey, and Greg was drawn into its depths. It was galvanizing in its sinfulness - this omega was a high born noble, too pure to be disgraced before what was bound to be an honorable marriage . . .

Finally, Greg answered. “I might. May I try something?” he whispered. Mycroft nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Greg leaned in and kissed him softly on the lips. He tasted as good as he smelled. Their eyes were locked together, their gazes intense and lucid. The heat which had been pushed back in Greg’s mind returned with a vengeance. His whole body was on fire, and in agony he reached out to seize Mycroft.

Mycroft stumbled back with a gasp. “Don’t,” he commanded, and though his eyes were closed and lips parted as if he were having a pleasant dream, Greg obeyed.

“You liked it.”

“I - you’re in heat. Your hormones are going wild. If we do anything more, you’ll regret it later.”

“You liked it!”

“Don’t make a big deal out of that. You smell like cider, and I’m partial to apples.” Greg beamed. “I should . . . Go.”

“See you.”

That night: another knock. “Come in!” This time, it was Lord Sherlock. He set a new tray atop the lunch tray, which was now empty, if only because Greg had had nothing else to do all afternoon besides pick at his food and think - and thinking made his head hurt. Just as the alpha’s scent, so close and out of reach, made his body ache. But at least he wasn’t alone.

“I’m expected to stay awhile.”

“Okay.”

Lord Sherlock studied him. “You’re not crying anymore. That’s good. Are you doing better?” 

“Yes.” Greg stood up straight. “I’m ashamed of my earlier conduct. I behaved jealousy and hysterically. You are entirely within your rights to be in love.”

Lord Sherlock smiled. “Thank you. And you have the right to be jealous; there’s no need to apologize. I hope that this doesn’t make things weird between us.”

“I’d like to be friends too.” Life would be much easier that way.

“Is that your vielle? I haven’t gotten to play in years.” Lord Sherlock crouched by it, not touching it as if it were holy, or cursed.

“Do you remember how?”

“I think. Why, would you let me play?”

“Of course.”

It started roughly, but the notes smoothed out as Lord Sherlock remembered his touch. More interesting was that he was singing along. It was a drinking ditty, but sung dutifully.

“I haven’t listened to much music since I presented,” Lord Sherlock explained apologetically.

“I’ll teach you some songs.”

Greg corrected Lord Sherlock’s posture and guided his fingers on new notes. He still smelled ravishing, but not tempting. Lord Sherlock was not his, and Greg was not Lord Sherlock’s, so there was nothing to be tempted to do.

For the next few days, the two brothers took turns distracting Greg from his heat, both of them perfectly chastely. Mycroft did not mention the kiss, and Greg likewise abstained, fearful that he would think Greg was being hormonal. But he cherished each moment they were together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what did we think??


	6. . . . And hits a wasp nest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look up the orchestral music in Can Can from Orpheus in the Underworld, and set it to play on loop as you read through this chapter. Have fun!

A strange sight greeted Mycroft outside the music room window. It was an entourage of horses and carriages. It was almost as if someone very important had arrived, though none were expected until Easter. “Father, is Easter today?”

“No, it’s next Sunday. Why do you ask?”

“Which way did you calculate Easter?”

“The eighty-four year cycle on the lunar calendar, the way Father Moran taught us to, of course.”

“I believe that the Alexandrian system would put Easter on this Sunday.”

“Why do you concern yourself with that? Your mother knows the proper date of the Resurrection, and any talk of undermining her word is unacceptable. In the case of religion, it is almost heretical.”

“ _I_ didn’t mean to be heretical. But I must suggest - if the royal family follows the heretical calculation, they would commit the horrid blasphemy of marking today as Easter, which would make that the princess’s carriage.” He raised an imperious finger and tapped the glass.

The other omegas leaped to their feet and rushed to the window.

“It’s her!” the earl shrieked. “Princess Irene is _here,_ expecting a lavish banquet - Lady Hudson! Assemble the household and set the dining room table. Boys! Get downstairs and rally the cooks. I’ll stall for as long as I can.”

_I’m in charge of the food._ Really, this sabotage would be too easy. He could even blame it on a servant. He grabbed Greg’s hand and tried to keep his mind off how delicate the hand was, how lithe the fingers, how perfect the nails were as the two raced to the kitchen.

“Mycroft?” His blood froze in his veins. _You knew this was coming, you can only hold it off for so long!_ Mycroft knew he’d made a mistake - who kisses his brother’s consort? Who _likes_ it? - and now Greg was going to apologize for allowing himself to be carried away by his hormones, and that there was nothing more to it than that. But as soon as he said it, things would be _weird_ between them. Mycroft had to act normal, prove that they could still be good, platonic friends.

“Not now - quick, get the salt!” Mycroft pointed in a direction that there very well might have been salt in, and turned around to address the bewildered cooks. “The princess has arrived. Steam all the fish we have, apply spices to stew liberally, churn ice cream, and anything else you can think of, quickly!”

The head chef immediately took charge, and since she knew what she was doing, Mycroft contentedly faded into the background. He drifted there awhile, eyes searching the crowd. Eventually they landed on Greg’s slim figure, which was draped in bright yellow-orange fabric, like a hazy summer night in an orchard. He was clutching a bag of salt and striding purposefully though aimlessly around. Mycroft felt safe staring openly, for surely such glorious eyes wouldn’t deign to rest on -

They did. He was caught. Mycroft quickly covered his panic with action: he waved, as if he had been trying to catch Greg’s eyes all along. Greg raced to his side. “Now what?”

Mycroft was forced by the secrecy of his next words - certainly not any desire to get close to Greg’s lips, which were curving into an excited, conspiratorial smirk - to lean in. “We’re going to put the salt in the ice cream. Follow me and do exactly as I do.”

The two strode with backs straightened and heads raised with the haughtiness of nobles among servants. When they reached the ones churning ice (these three were young, wore faded clothes, had eyes respectfully cast downwards) Mycroft commanded, “Put this in the ice cream.”

“I’m sorry, milord?” one of them, an unbonded alpha, asked.

“You’d _better_ be sorry for questioning your superiors. Put the salt in the ice cream or you shall contend with the countess.”

The momentary rebellion was crushed, and the deed was done. “Now,” Mycroft instructed, “none of you will speak a word of this to anyone.” He turned on his heels and marched away. Greg’s shoes clicked against the ground beside him.

“Mycroft?” _No, no, no - act normal! Don’t talk about it!_

“Quick, we need to get dressed up for the feast. Your dress is fine” _better than fine_ “refresh your makeup and put on your best jewelry.”

Mycroft ducked quicklky in his room and locked the door behind him. “Fetch my blue silk.”

“Milord, the earl has recommended the red dress.”

_The slutty red one?_ Sure enough, the dress waiting on Mycroft’s bed was short - when his servants secured it on him, the sleeves only came up to his elbows. _Leave it to Father to put me in this._

But it did feel festive. There was nothing to lose from owning up to how good he looked, Mycroft decided, and found some gaudy silver necklaces and bracelets to go with it. If he had to go to the party, he’d make it fun.

“Their swords are all like this, curved like crescents.” The countess brandished it as if to demonstrate what her opponents had done during the crusades.

“Mother, you shouldn’t be lifting heavy weights so late in your pregnancy.”

“It’s not very heavy, Sherlock, see?” A servant suddenly burst through the doors.

“Milady, milord -”

“How _dare_ you interrupt us?” The countess boomed. The little beta quailed, and dropped into a kneel.

“The earl sent for you.”

“And he knows damned well that military discussions are not to be disturbed -”

“Milady, Princess Irene has arrived.”

The countess did not waste time on more words. The servant knew she could count herself dismissed when Countess Holmes raced past her, and Sherlock didn’t need to be told to follow.

In the main hall, Sherlock was a tad surprised to see his father, since he couldn’t smell him. The whole room smelled like it had been overlaid with iron. It wasn’t a striking scent, but a suppressive one. The princess controlling it stood in the center of the room, clad in decorative royal armor.

“Welcome, Your Highness.” Sherlock and the countess bowed low. “I trust you didn’t find the ride too arduous?”

“It was lovely. You have an idyllic little outpost here. Surely this isn’t the son you’re presenting to me?” The princess searched Sherlock’s face more closely than needed to confirm that he was not an omega. Her eyes narrowed slightly in the way alphas looked at others’ omegas when they wanted to be subtle.

“Is Mycroft not here yet?”

“I am now, Mother.” Mycroft swaggered into the room, dressed like an incubus and concealing a smirk within an innocent smile. _How is he going to mess up this one?_ “Your Highness. Please pardon my tardiness.”

“Naturally, my lord Mycroft. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“And I yours, Highness.”

“A charming family you have, Countess. Have all introductions been made?”

“There is still my consort . . .” Sherlock looked around, and the lad stepped forward. Motioning towards him, Sherlock announced, “Gordon of Kingsbridge.” He immediately saw that this was incorrect. The faces all around him suppressed sighs or grimaces or smirks. But no one saw fit to correct the heir to the earldom in front of an honored guest. The omega could swallow his pride for the night.

“Salutations, Your Highness.”

“Greetings. And happy Easter. Have I arrived early, or is the feast about prepared? I’m famished.”

“Ah,” the countess stalled informatively.

“Yes!” the earl exclaimed. “Do come along, the dining room is right this way.” There had been no time to organize a seating chart, but it was important to not let the princess know that, so everyone pretended to know what they were doing. Princess Irene was granted the head of the table, Sherlock and Mycroft sat across from each other in the two chairs beside her. Their mother wound up at the foot of the table, with their father and Sherlock’s consortflanking her.

“You see, Your Highness,” Mycroft stage-whispered, “I have arranged this expertly so that we might be a ways away from the watchful eyes of my parents. I’ve always found it easier to be myself in privacy.”

Sherlock almost choked, although there hadn’t yet been any food served to choke on.

“Shall we take advantage of our relative isolation and speak candidly?” The princess straightened her back and put her elbows on the table. “I have heard many complaints about your comportment from your previous aspiring suitors. They say you are an arrogant, manipulative smart arse.”

They weren’t wrong, but Sherlock couldn’t suppress a protective outburst: “The words of jilted lovers aren’t often trustworthy.”

“True. But, Lord Mycroft, you do precious little to dissuade those rumors. Why?”

“I oughtn’t distort fact, Your Highness. I am obnoxious and disliked. I’ve studied more than most omegas have - more than most _people_ have - and this has made me self-important. I talk back to my elders. I am intolerant towards slights. It is better for them, and for you, to know this upfront. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“I’m not disappointed. I’m not looking for a trophy husband but for a future king. To be headstrong is a virtue for royalty. What have you studied?”

“I know Latin, French, and have studied literature in those and in English. I am skilled on the harp and have a basic knowledge of history and the celestial bodies.”

“You would be well suited to run a castle. And how do you feel about marital affections?”

Mycroft was silent for a long time. His eyes, usually so intent on the faces of his audience, drifted away. “Your Highness, I can not be not certain that I would fall in love with you, if we were to marry.”

“So, would a loveless marriage built on mutual camaraderie and esteem be acceptable to you?”

All mischief was gone from Mycroft’s eyes, which were wrinkling in consternation. He frowned, then began to slowly nod -

“No!” Sherlock whipped around to face the speaker, as did everyone else in the room. It was his consort. “You . . .” he sank shyly down in his chair. “ . . . Shouldn’t do that.”

The table waited for a polite moment for him to elaborate. He didn’t. Sherlock felt a pair of eyes burning against his skin, and turned to behold his mother. She raised her eyebrows at him: _get your omega in line._

“And why is that, Griffin?”

“Lord Mycroft shouldn’t settle for anything less than he deserves - pardon me, Your Highness! I only mean that he ought to be with someone he loves, and who loves him.”

“That is a kind concern,” Princess Irene said. “I do not mean to undervalue his desires. I myself am infatuated with Count Norton, and he with me.” _Godfrey Norton?_ He was a fellow alpha. It wasn’t conventional to announce such an affair aloud in such high society - but a princess, Sherlock supposed, could do as she pleased, and any gasps that might have been released were stifled. “I would allow Lord Mycroft to pursue others, provided that he not shame me with excessive publicity in it.”

Sherlock found himself nodding, and bit his lip to keep from saying: _My approach exactly._

“I mean that - I believe Lord Mycroft might have a better chance at love if he were to stay here.”

“What do you mean?” Mycroft whispered.

“It just strikes me that, perhaps, there might be a person here who feels both riled up and weak at once when they smell you, who wants to hold you from night to morning, who could joyously spend a lifetime laughing and speaking and sitting in silence with you, who _loves_ you,” the omega explained through gritted teeth.

“And . . . who might that person be?”

“Me.”

“Sherlock,” the countess boomed dangerously. He suppressed a flinch and turned to her. “Unless you are inclined to share your omega, you should get him under control.”

“I give you my consent to court my brother, Garfield.”

_“WHAT?!”_

“Thank you, my lord, though I must have his if I am to proceed.”

Mycroft did not look perturbed by the expectant stares boring into him on all sides. He sat up straight and said, in his usual dignified air, “I owe you my sincerest apologies, Your Highness. I believe that I love him too.”

“You childish - ungrateful -” the countess’s face contorted and her husband took up the mantle of scolding.

“You are young and confused, Mycroft. You mistake innocent friendship for something romantic. Your Highness, do forgive him this lapse, his wits are usually much more sharp.”

“I am not deluded, Father.” The countess groaned as if in agony.

“Then what, exactly, do you plan to do with your life? Leech off your family until you die?”

“He could take Gregolas with him when he marries,” Sherlock suggested.

“I would permit that,” Princess Irene said, but her words were drowned under the countess’s:

“Sherlock, you can’t just give away an omega you’ve claimed!”

Sherlock couldn’t quite meet his mother’s eyes. “I . . . have not claimed him.”

“Then just _what_ have you been doing in his room for the past week?”

“Playing the vielle,” he murmured.

“What sort of an alpha are you?! You shun your handsome young omega, driving him away from the natural order of attraction, as you play his frivolous little instrument - why, Mycroft is more of an alpha than _you._ Maybe I should pass him off as a beta and make him heir instead - ah!” For a second time, her moan seemed more pained than enraged. When she didn’t resume her tirade, Sherlock snuck a glance at her.

His mother was doubled over, face paling, clutching her stomach - _no,_ Sherlock realized with shock, _she’s clutching her womb._

Someone’s voice cracked through the still air: “The baby is coming.”


	7. In which we learn that it was someone's job to keep the kids in line

Earl Holmes was present at the birth, but did not aid the midwife coaxing his child into the world or the servants endlessly fetching water and cloth. He was useless for such labor, but entrusted with ‘morale support.’ Its importance was dubious. He let his wife squeeze his arm so tightly it cut off his circulation; this position could have been filled by a servant or pillow. Considering what had gone on right in front of his face in his own household, and had been left unopposed until this disastrous incident, he was beginning to wonder if it would be prudent to replace himself with a doll - at least a doll wouldn’t pretend to be in control.

This was over mercifully quickly. “It’s a girl!” A sharp cry pierced the air, the corn was cut, and the babe placed on her mother’s breast. “Congratulations, Countess. All seems well.”

“Thank you. You may leave us now.”

As the servants hustled out the door, one hung back a moment to ask, “Shall we begin the feast without you?”

“Yes. Bring us something light and sweet, and tell our sons that they can meet their sister after they eat,” the earl instructed. They would have to entertain the princess without him while he was busy with damage control. The door closed, and the mother, father, and baby were alone.

“I’ve reconsidered. Euros is a beautiful name for a girl.” It really wasn’t, but Earl Holmes needed to pick his battles.

“Mmhmm . . . Euros it is, then. Would you like to hold her?”

He reached out and cradled his daughter. She wasn’t crying anymore, and looked as charming as any baby. He smiled.

“How could you let this happen?” the countess asked, with a leisurely, tired air.

“Well, when a mumsie and a popsie -” she chuckled softly. “I . . . Don’t know. Perhaps, when Mycroft was bringing Greg his meals during heat, he lingered.”

“You shouldn’t have let him do that.”

“You’re right.”

“And what of Sherlock?”

“This doesn’t mean much about or for him. Not immediately taking his omega doesn’t necessarily indicate anything unnatural about him. Nevertheless, I’ll make sure the servants don’t gossip.”

“Good. We will need to deal with Greg, somehow. If Princess Irene weds Mycroft, we can put him aside.”

Mycroft would not like that, especially after the princess said she would allow them to stay together - he might try to ruin the wedding. _No,_ the earl thought, _he can’t be stupid enough to ruin his chances with a member of the royal family._

“Some ice cream, milady, milord,” a servant, popping his head into the room, said.

“Set it here.” He obeyed, then scurried away. Cradling Euros in one arm, the earl picked up a spoonful.

“We could, of course, let Mycroft take Greg with him,” he said, faking carelessness, and stuck the spoon into his mouth as if to demonstrate that the conversation took a back seat to food. The countess mimicked his motion, but with a more sincere desire for the ice cream.

At the same time, they tasted salt. _I suppose he really is stupid enough._

“I can’t believe it! I’m sure it was that brat - no, we absolutely cannot reward him for this horrid behavior.”

“Darling,” the earl cooed, suppressing a burst of panic, “this is exactly why we need to give him what he wants. This is the only proposal he’s been given, the only he’s likely to ever get, the only he’s expressed interest in, and likely the only one he’ll ever accept. We need to ensure his cooperation.” Mycroft would soon be out of his youth, and if he wasn’t wed by then, he’d be a miserable, obnoxious thorn in the earl’s side until death released him.

“He has no say in the matter!”

_I wish._ “Perhaps not, but the princess seems to care for his opinion. And it would be frightfully rude of us to withhold Greg from _her,_ especially since we don’t need him for anything.”

“But . . .” The countess’s objection was half-hearted, and her eyes had grown pensive. “We need to punish Mycroft for his insubordination.”

“How come? He’ll be the royal family’s problem soon enough.”

She cackled. “You know what? You’re right.” He sighed with relief. “Go make sure they don’t serve this crap,” Countess Holmes gestured to the bowls of ice cream, “to Princess Irene.”

“Of course.” They earl passed baby Euros back to her mother.

“I’ll miss the little snot,” she told his back on his way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting close to the finish line!


	8. Epilogue

Mycroft stole one single quiet moment from the hectic rush of his departure: as his servants loaded his baggage into the princess’s carriage, which she had chivalrously ceded to Mycroft and Greg, he cradled his new sister. “Hello, Euros. You’re an adorable child, though I imagine you’ll prove yourself as stinky and loud as the lot of them. Anyways, I’m your brother. Hopefully I’ll get to visit you sometimes and remind you of that.” For a second, Euros’ eyes were bright and clear, and she smiled as if she could understand Mycroft perfectly. Then she released a pitiful wail and broke into tears, and the moment ended. “No, hush, stop crying . . .”

The earl swooped in and scooped his daughter up into his arms. He glanced at Mycroft, with a suppressed accusation for the child’s sobbing in his eyes, but only said, “Are you ready? Have you gone to the restroom?”

“Yes, and yes. Is it time?” As he spoke, Mycroft saw Princess Irene - _my fiancée,_ he tried to label her in his mind - mount a sleek black horse. She turned around and began waving at her entourage.

“Wait! Don’t leave me behind!” Greg burst out from the main doors, and sprinted towards Mycroft. He stopped himself with a stumble right before running into him. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

“You’re right on time,” Myrcroft assured him. “Goodbye, Father.”

“You’ll write to us?” The earl half-hugged Mycroft with the arm not holding Euros.

“Of course.” Mycroft looked around and saw his mother and brother by the gate, which the princess was currently exiting. He supposed that the carriage would be heading that way anyways, so climbed in, pulling Greg up after him.

“Giddyup!” the driver called, and the world around the carriage began to pass by slowly. The earl kept pace with it until they reached the gate, where the rest of the Holmes family waited.

“Goodbye!” Mycroft’s mother called. His father gave a final, dignified wave.

“Farewell, Mycroft and Gandalf!” Sherlock shouted.

Mycroft was about to bid them all _adieu_ when he heard a cry of, “Greg! My name is Greg!” The aforenamed omega had mirth in his eyes and a smile tugging at his lips as he spoke.

“Then so long, Greg!” Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh, and by the time he had stopped his family was out of earshot. He leaned out the window to wave at them, and when they became blurs he watched his old castle shrink. When even that was a speck, he tore his eyes from the window. 

“Is this the first time you’ve been away from home?” Greg asked. His eyes were wide and non-judgemental.

“Is it so obvious?” Greg shrugged. “Well, yes. I suppose you’ve been away for awhile - does it get lonely without your family?”

“Yes. But I’ve had you.”

“And I’ll have you. I think I’ll be alright, then.”

Greg flushed. “Ah. I suppose we should get comfortable - can you loosen my corset?”

Mycroft gladly obliged. He moved close behind Greg, gently tugged his exterior dress off. Mycroft couldn’t help but move more slowly each time his hand inevitably brushed against Greg’s arms or back. He delicately tugged at the laces, and Greg sighed gratefully.

“You did have those tight.”

“I was told that your father preferred it that way,” Greg said.

“Well, he’s not here now, and as your soon-to-be king I command that you wear your corsets as comfortably as you please.”

“Of course, Your Future Majesty. Speaking of which, I think the most comfortable corset, in this heat, would be none at all. Would you assist me in taking it off?”

“As you wish.”

And none but the rising pink and yellow sun peeked in the carriage window to watch their private dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's all! I'm absolutely flattered by all the attention this story has gotten. I was nervous about doing a regular chapter fic where I outline the plot but post as I go, (in the only other chapter fic I have up, I wrote the whole thing before I posted the first chapter) but even though I set out wanting to write some sort of biting satire aaaaaaand instead got caught up in the plot + characters, I think it turned out all right! And I posted more consistently than I thought I would be, so go figure!!
> 
> If anyone has any criticisms, compliments, or rambles - please write them in the comments!! <3


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